


The black sun has its rays broken

by Amixi



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Drama, F/M, Forced Relationship, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Torture, a lot of crazy and evil stuff, hans are we baddies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 17:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amixi/pseuds/Amixi
Summary: Who would think that simple, daily routine in Revendreth - hit-and-run some Denathrius' cronies - might end in such bad fashion?bad things will happen in late chapters so the warnings are for themit was not an easy task for me, since I want to stay a) true to canon, b) true to English language, which is not my native oneyet I tried
Relationships: Denathrius & Renathal (Warcraft), Denathrius (Warcraft)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 10





	The black sun has its rays broken

_People like to think that if you want something really badly, the whole universe helps you with that. What nonsense. Just reach for it and make the stars bleed._

* * *

It was not her first death, nor the last. 

The battle with Master's cronies as always considered pretty easy for a battle-trained, skilled mage of this type. Each of them represented at least an understandable type of behaviour, driven either with rage or fear. Or both. 

It always ended in flames, in a magical burst of fire that couldn't be extinguished by traditional means. It left very traditional scars, though, and this kind of arcane was her favourite right now. She felt Revendreth was a lovely place: Renathal asked for heads, Renathal was receiving heads. 

This time, this encounter, had to be different. 

Although the stoneborn were easy to mould with fire, there were a lot of them today. Elenia decided to pick a different approach: either hit and run, return other time and bring more suitable suffering from the depths of Ardenweald. So, when she heard the crush of stones, she was sure it is another gargoyle ready to die; just this one, the last victim to kill. Slowly, she left her hiding in the stone rubble. 

To her surprise, there was no stoneborn, no living - or unliving - soul, only the red darkness, as the blade pierced her chest through. Maddened sound of Remornia's giggle was the last thing she has heard. 

* * *

_Wake up._

_Elen!_

_You're not dead yet._

How isn't one dead, when their heart was pierced through? When the sword lefts nothing but a hole in your chest? 

Or how someone is dead if the death titan is bringing you to knees, or by the fallen prince with this frost sword, or when the sleeping god of shadows and void is destroying your very essence, or when you die altogether, one by one, always yet avoiding the grim fate? One might say that this is the best of lucks - being so tied to life, but in a situation like this, she was more _chained_ to her existence. 

The smiling loa told her why; the connection to the mother-world, to Azeroth, was denying her the luxury of death. It was a blessing. It was the curse. She was still needed and when needed, she should not leave her guard. 

And speaking of chains, she felt them too. When she opened her eyes already, she smelled the heavy air. Smoke from candles, the dust and stone. Her own blood. She heard screaming as well, the agony, the fear. She thought about her prince from her younger years - Kael'thas Sunstrider, so beloved, so hated. Sin'dorei had a good memory. Sadly, they had a good sense of hearing, too. For howling and screams, in this case, but at least that gave her a clue about her fate. 

She studied her body. There was a lot of blood on her tunic, and her legs were bent to the ground, her ankles chained as well as her wrists. There were cuts on her hands and her palms. What a mess. 

Her mind quickly connected the facts: she did not leave Revendreth, and supposedly, she was in Castle Nathria. No one would light the candles if they lock her in the crypt, and there too much dust to call it someone's home. 

_Dungeons._

So they treated her like one of these defiant souls, except, she was not dead. She was hanging on the chains as the others, yet they won't get her anima so easily. The flesh is a cage, a prison, not only for the spirit, but also for its essence. Obviously, the sorceress knew that they would try anyway, and the process will be extremely painful. In this state, she won't be able to cast any spells or see any way of escape. 

Her head was heavy enough to fall asleep again. It was a matter of minute — or countless hours, no one could say — when she heard the approaching steps. The somewhat familiar scent of death reminded her about the true Master of Revendreth. When or how he went closer, she couldn't say. Her sense of hearing wasn't that good to listen to him just appearing in front of her face. 

"That was quick" she complimented him like the current situation was not abstract enough. Sire Denathrius' posture was intimidating already, yet now, on her knees, she felt it like standing in front of the mountain. 

"I assume that might seem impressive to your kind" he answered with a sly smirk on his face "Impertinents such as yourself could learn a thing or two." 

She turned her head a bit. Something was wrong and she was eager to find out what exactly. 

"I wouldn't dare to disappoint. Is there any reason to visit me, my lord?" she wasn't mean to be rude. She meant to be disrespectful and audacious. 

"I need to see upon my subjects, and you should be aware of that. And... of course, I have to see my prisoners as well."He ignored her obvious mockery, answering with his own. "There's a reckoning to be done, and my, you're in such a terrible state in there. Are you in pain?" 

"The pain" was a euphemism, as there were no places on her body that didn't hurt. 

"I've been through worse." She spitted out.

That... was and wasn't entirely true. In her whole life, she suffered pain that was uncomparable with this one, long ago, when the army of dead decimated Silvermoon, her love ones included. Yet it has a different meaning and a different level. But telling him this story wasn't on her top priority list.

"I am delighted to constate that you are now completely... safe. I would hate to think that something bad might happen to you, Maw Walker." 

Elen studied his face in dim light. For now, she would play the game, and for this playing, she needs to know the board. The usual, relaxed smile of Master was a mask for something else. He wouldn't visit her if he didn't want anything. 

To think about it, she didn't die as he planned. She should assume he tried more than once. When that didn't work, he could consider throwing her to the Maw alive, but that wouldn't work as well — being Maw Walker is a very definition of being able to escape — so naturally, he would toss her to other prisoners, to at least extract some anima. Judging the fact that the containers surrounding her were empty... 

_How do we get out of this situation? How to disappear among the omnipresent darkness and never return to this terrible place?_

_How?_

"Sorry," she said quietly. She tried to approach him from a different angle than usual. 

"No. But you'll be" he was pleased that she recognised her place in the line. "I'll take good care of that." 

"Really?" she asked in a heavy voice. _What to do? How to run?_

Now, she couldn't feel chains any more; maybe it was only another dreamscape, the oneiric horizon of events, wrong decimal place. 

"I believe your mortal mind tries to rationalize the situation you're in. Let me be a generous host and explain: your fate is hanging in the balance". The deep voice of the Master dragged her out of thoughts. 

Biting her own lips, she decided to answer. 

"Yet you're not the one who hung it there." 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"My destiny... yours... all... it's not like we control them, not really." she choked out a few brief sentences, trying to capture her thoughts. She wouldn't convince him to let her go, that much was clear. But maybe he'll make her situation change, at least for a little while. "It has been decided for us, while the dice have been thrown and are now rolling into the abyss. You don't know what you're going to do next, you can only plan." 

"I was there, there the destinies were written, longer ago than you could possibly count." Denathrius stated lazily, the flash of anger in his voice "Do not try to admonish me, Maw Walker, for I am not your equal. Determining fate is a privilege you won't ever enjoy." 

Elen knew it was now or never. 

"You won't too unless Renathal decides to surrender. And he would not, even as your true born, from your very flesh and soul" she closed her eyes, expecting what to come. "Your own body denies you." 

His hand immediately reached for her throat and squeezed to the point breathing was no longer an option. 

"Aren't you a pest?" he hissed, his red eyes glaring "What is standing between you and me now, Maw Walker? What string would you pull now?" 

Seconds, she thought, you have only seconds before suffocating. One of her hands moved in the thin air, drawing this much magic she could do and use in this state, only drawing, writing in the empty abyss. Before it's too late. 

Letter after letter, word after... the very process of writing was hard in her state, nearly impossible. Grasp on her throat didn't make things easier. Yet she tried, move after move, letter... just one... 

Dizziness in the head, pain in the chest, first syndromes of losing consciousness. Fingers numbing slowly, a terrible sensation in the stomach, the second syndrome is... what was the second syndrome of... What I am doing now? 

_Oh._

_I am dying again_ , thought elven sorceress when she stopped to feel - no more pain, air, nothing else, only darkness. 

* * *

Denathrius released her throat and looked upon the unconscious mage with a puzzled look. What she did not know right now, she tried — in that pity state — not only to cast a little bit of magic, but she actually managed to compose something in the air indeed. 

Something that made him stop, but she wasn't aware of it. 

He should move her upstairs. Indeed. Secure her in different kind of chains for now. Stronger and more... Reliable ones. 

It would be reckless not to hold her under constant control... and under constant recognition. 

But first, the writing... He needs to dispose of it before someone notices a thing. 

Floating in the air, red as the blood, letters stated: 

**DE** theroc

Bal **NA** zzar

Varima **THR** as

Tichondr **IUS**

* * *

The wake-up call was not a pleasant one. 

At first, Elen thought she was home again. She felt the softness of the mattress and the pleasant softness of the pillows. She was warm and the familiar scent of flowers was in the air. A beautiful smell, because it was deep, sweet and heavy. It was... let us remember, Elen... red flowers, yes... 

Widowblooms and sanguine roses, right? 

_Oh, no, no, no._

She abruptly opened her eyes, looking around the room. She was lying on a bed far too large for her needs - for anyone's needs, even - in a huge chamber with a vaulting so high it was hard to see the ceiling. 

The chamber was filled with wonders that were hard to find in the known world. There were sculptures depicting creatures she had never seen, paintings by master brushes who were long dead. Furniture made of wood that did not grow in the lands of the living. Trinkets whose use was impossible to understand. The luxury of this place was downright obscene, especially in the situation Revendreth found itself in. 

Even the fabric of the bedding - silk, satin, damask - did not come from the plants and animals she knew. 

At the foot of the bed sat a venthyr woman, who rose momentarily as soon as she noticed that Elenia was already conscious. The richly tailored robes, the hymnal, and the vile expression on her face reminded the sorceress that she was dealing with Denathrius's closest circle, the cabalist. 

The woman looked at the sorceress with a meaningful expression on her face. 

"The master has instructed you to be comfortable. The dredgers have brought you food." She indicated the tray on the bedside table "Your wounds will heal in time, so do not strain yourself too much." 

Elen already had a ready reply to that, one that could not be written down without insulting words. When she opened her mouth, however, no sound came out. 

_My voice._

_He silenced me, took away my voice._

She clutched her throat - it still hurt, after all, how could it not when someone had squeezed it with all their might earlier - as if this gesture would restore her ability to speak. 

The cabalist smiled indulgently. She had seen such situations before, such a pitiful state when a sinner had upset the Master and was now paying the price. 

"With your permission, my lady." She said defiantly, bowing in a slightly mocking manner. 

She left, leaving Elen alone. 

The sorceress curled up on the bed. Never before she had to deal with a silence spell that lasted for so long. Never. And no one had made her unable to use her magic, made her unable to express herself properly. 

No one had ever taken anything from her in such an open way. 

Sorceress felt like she could cry, but that would do no good in this situation. Tears were admittedly a poison that, when hidden inside, kills in most slowly and most effective fashion. Yet here, in this place, crying would not change anything, would not move anyone... and will not soothe anything. 

She only hoped it was the only thing that had been taken from her. 

* * *

She did not know whether hours had passed or there were whole days. She had no desire to eat, but it eating was reasonable - starving to death wouldn't change anything anyway. It was not Denathrius that kept her alive, but a call from Azeroth, a call from a mother who demanded that her child continue to walk the world in her name. The connection that many would call such happiness was now an absolute burden. 

Besides, where would she go until death? Here or the Maw, not sure which was worse. 

What the dredgers brought her tasted like nothing she had ever encountered. Purple and red pomegranate fruits that oozed a juice with an unearthly taste. The fruit of oblivion, which in myth was associated with the land of death and the spring girl, stolen by the god of the dead. 

But there were other things too, asparagus in sweet sauce, fragrant cheeses, roasted meat whose origin Elen did not know, but she assumed it did not come from an intelligent being. There was enough of it to feed far more than one person, but Denathrius had already proven that he liked to flaunt his wealth and ostentatiously waste it. 

Being locked in such a luxurious cage had its flaws, however, as she acknowledged after a moment. She had no intention of touching the things that were in the room, as they were almost certainly laden with malicious traps.

It would be boring as hell she was in. 

None of her enemies had ever treated her with such a method. She had been tempted in many ways, seduced by Burning Legion soldiers and officers. It was obvious and natural. Old Gods also whispered sweet nothings to her from behind the curtain of darkness. However, most of her opponents only wanted to see dismembered bodies, burning cities and treated her as an obstacle in their way. 

Well. Denathrius did that too, but in this case, he was tempted to make an exception. Keeping her as close as possible, he decided not to underestimate the threat like everyone before him. If she could only die, her soul could and probably would have to belong to Revendreth after death, though Elen wished for a peaceful sleep in Ardenweald. Yet her past was cruel, and she was cruel because her heart was frozen the day death knight Arthas Menethil laid waste to Quel'Thalas. 

She fell asleep, thinking about her sins. 

This time she woke up rested and quite content. She was also not surprised to find that the Master of Revendreth had found his way back to his chambers and was at this very moment using one of the strange trinkets to create a bizarre reddish net in the air. Elen decided to be polite and silent. Besides, for the latter, she didn't have much choice. 

He lifted his gaze, smiling sinisterly. He put the tool down on the table and walked over to the bed. 

"Is my sweet guest well? Is there anything you don't need? Perhaps you wish to return to the Winter Queen, to your beloved forest? Don't be shy, don't be shy, my love, I will not hold you by force. All you have to do is say one word." 

She snorted, as the joke did not amuse her at all. Denathrius tilted his head, very pleased with himself. 

"Ah! You can't speak, well, yes... we'll do something about it right away. I am here, love." 

He reached to her and just snapped his fingers like this was a small cantrip to dispel. She, on the other hand, didn't have much time to enjoy the tremor in her throat, the gentle return of her beloved voice. 

"Naturally, I deserve a thank you, don't I?" Denathrius asked, grabbing her chin and hereby receiving payment himself. His breath - was he even breathing, for sure? - met her own. 

She couldn't recall anyone kissing her like that. Elen couldn't remember anyone ever kissed her at all, so the feeling, new to her body and even newer to her soul for a moment, paralysed her completely. Her stomach twisted in a knot, and she wasn't sure if that's the excitement or nausea. 

Or both. 

The tongue rising to lips, tongue touching teeth. Lips that were pressing to her own really hard, showing her the way of new experiences they can and will do. His other hand on the back of her neck as he brutally took away her ability to manoeuvre, the opportunity to escape the unwanted kiss. The shock of heat on her face as the seal went on and on, as he found new parts of her mouth that had not yet been explored, kissed, caressed. Possessively and even angrily, he then squeezed the delicate hair on her neck. The experience grew more dreadful by the moment. He claimed her lips, intensely and hungry, and she found he has rather sharp teeth. That would leave bruises and some terrible memories as well. The tongue that is forcing its way through her mouth more and more, as if there's no end to that... 

When it seemed to take an eternity, Denathrius finally pulled his mouth away from hers, smiling complacently. She clutched for air, tears in her eyes. 

A terrifying experience. _Or a_ _terrific one?_

"Am I not a pitiful, filthy mortal to start with?" she asked, reminding him of every stern word she heard in this place. 

"But of course you are! Luckily, I am a noble ruler, and I decided to enhance you. Uphold you. Ascend you." Denathrius was strict in this metaphor "I will re-create your very essence." 

"I am not your... I am not Renathal." she hissed furiously. The anger swelled. "I will not be a substitute for a lost love. Nor a doll in your very own dollhouse." 

Either her anger was contagious, or the remainder of his failure made his red eyes glow. 

"Should I take your voice again? Or should I make up my mind and toss you into the Maw, just as you deserve?" 

"Exactly what you did to yours! To Renathal, to Curator! What happened to others? Did you pull them into the abyss, when they stopped to love you because you absorbed so many sins that they twisted you completely, just as you tried to twist your s..." 

She felt the hit first because it was that quick that she was not able to see it. Her face started to burn, as his claws left something on her cheek. He grabbed her collar and draws her really, really close. Winds of Northrend, heed my call, she thought, for I am going to freeze him down. 

"Don't" the warning came with such intense passion that she immediately frowned "Don't you ever dare bring Renathal to the conversation. When I will, I will. But you... you, small, petulant mortal, you have no idea what kind of connection we both had." 

She felt... nearly sorry when she discovered not only the relentless fury in his voice but also the genuine regret. 

"We eagerly shared the connection that cannot be lost. The connection you, a fleshy creature, would only dream about. I don't care how many servants of Ardenweald you brought to your soul. This won't and never be the same." 

He released her robe, shifting his gaze somewhere else. She spotted the chance, but his cold hand went to her mouth. 

"I see what you are trying to do" when he looked at her again, he was smiling in the most terrifying way of all "I will not show Renathal so much mercy this time. Exterminating him will give me as much pleasure as even the mere thought of the look on Kyrestia's face... when the Maw pours out on all worlds to take its death toll." 

Her face flushed momentarily at this dictum. She thought she would capture at least a fragment of his thought, a memory of something pleasant. She grasped his fingers with her palm and forcibly plunged them away. It wasn't easy at all. 

"Don't touch me. I'm not yours to torment." she signalled angrily "I had seen the light go out in Varimathras' eyes and I would love to watch yours go out." 

What had assailed her to continue provoking him? 

He looked down at her. 

"I don't think you demonstrate even a fraction of the ability... Although if you're so keen on watching the lights go out, then..." He theatrically pointed to her door "Put on your cloak, tie a shawl under your neck and come in." 

"What for?" she asked rather pointedly. 

"I'll introduce you to the fading prince." 


End file.
